Corruption Error
by AlexPrime
Summary: Some skeletons should be left to their closets, and some secrets should stay buried. How unfortunate that poor Mike Schmidt knew about neither when he signed on for a graveyard shift. After all, nothing that lived ever truly dies and sometimes those things get sort of... corrupted...


**Title:** Corruption Error  
**Author:** AlexPrime  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Five Nights at Freddy's, I simply borrow the characters for a while.  
**Author's Note:** I've decided to do a slightly different take on Five Nights at Freddy's, something I haven't seen much of. My take on Mike is based on the idea that no one sane would ever really stick with that sort of job, even for five nights. While this first chapter is rather vague in terms of whether or not he is hallucinating the events of the game, the animatronics and their unpleasant actions ARE real. I mean no disrespect to anyone with any condition mentioned in the fiction; my take on it is likely as grounded in reality as the killer animatronics themselves. For those who are coming from my Avengers story, A Bird Without Feathers, I plan to update it soon!

Enjoy! 

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_"We've met before, long ago. Remember me? Take my hand. It's going to be okay. Trust me."_

BEEP BEEP BEEP-

A lazy hand reached out from the tangle of sheets and pressed heavily onto the snooze button, silencing the blaring of the alarm clock. The room was silent save for the hazy whir-whir-whir of the fan in the corner. It was a rare moment of peace for the occupant of the bed, his body heavy and foggy from sleep deprivation and stress. Exhausted blue eyes cracked open and glanced at the clock. Only a little after six in the evening...

Just five more minutes...

BEEP BEEP BEE-

"M'up." Mike's voice was hoarse and scratchy as he slid up in bed, rubbing a hand across the back of his closed eyelids. Every bone in his body ached and throbbed as he stretched, trying to unwind the tension out of him. Restless nights had been traded for restless days and restless dreams. What little true sleep he'd gotten was disturbing and dark. Noises, voices, words. All of it unintelligible, and he supposed he was grateful for that small mercy. He had that pit in his stomach that suggested he wouldn't have liked it had he remembered.

Nightmares. It felt pathetic to say. At nineteen-years-old, he shouldn't be cowering in his sheets like a child every time he closed his eyes. He should be laying in bed, clutching at the covers. He shouldn't wake up sobbing some nights from pure terror. But he did and he was. Stupid of him. He needed to get it under control. Needed to figure out how to keep it under control, because it was beginning to spiral out.

Another glance at the clock. Fifteen past six. That meant he had five hours and forty-five minutes before he-...

No.

Don't think about it.

Don't. Think. About. It.

It was going to be fine tonight. It wasn't that bad. It was going to be better than last night. It was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

Mike Schmidt, age nineteen, stood in his room and stared at his belongings on the shelf. At the posters lining the wall. At the console scattered around surrounding the small television in the corner. He felt... alien in his own room. Like everything belonged except him. Like this place belonged to someone else and he was simply trespassing. It wasn't an uncommon feeling but it was one of the ones he never really could seem to shake off. At the day progressed, he'd find it easier to become reacquainted with his life.

Until midni-

No.

Don't think about it Mike. Please don't think about it.

The twinge from his bladder was what prompted him to begin moving from the stranger's room, padding on socked feet to the door. It was shut. Firmly shut, with a towel stuffed into the crack at the base. His hand shook as he reached a hand to a knob, seeing and feeling a flat button on the wall instead of the tarnished metal of- No. No, Mike. It wasn't there. He wasn't there. Stupid of him to get so confused...

"... Mom?" He called out, easing his way out into the hall. There was light on in the kitchen (their visible, bright kitchen)- and the sound of clattering of pans sounded from it. A head with curling red hair poked from the doorway and he felt his heart lurch. Not her. It wasn't her. It was Mom. He was safe with Mom.

"Morning Mikey." His mother, Joyce, said, smiling at his sleep-rumpled appearance. He felt the tension ease the longer he was in her presence. "You slept through lunch; you feeling okay?"

He nodded, feeling every bit as opposite of 'okay' as one could be. He felt sick, both inside and outside. Felt like he wasn't him. Or maybe he didn't want to be anymore. Maybe he wanted to be someone else. Someone who didn't have to go to that place tonight.

"I don't feel like Mike right now." Mike mumbled softly, shifting urgently as his bladder became more urgent. "Can you check it, mom... please?" There was a slight sigh from the woman as she came towards him, smoothing a hand through his red hair as she passed. She wasn't anymore unused to statements like that than he was at saying them. Still, he felt almost dizzy from relief when she confirmed that the empty bathroom was, indeed, empty, and he wasted little time rushing past her, slamming the door quickly behind him.

It was while he was washing his hands that he stared into the mirror and came to determine that yes, he was Mike after all. He didn't know for certain if this was comforting or not, because he had been liking the idea of not being him for a while. Someone else didn't see what he saw every night. Someone else didn't have to have their mother check the room for large yellow... things. Someone else didn't have to take approximately six pills every day to not wind back up in the hospital.

Obediently following his unofficial command, Mike forced all six of those pills down his throat, one after the other, chasing each one down with a glass of water from the tap. Sanity was supposed to be restored for another day, but he knew they weren't working anymore. Something had gone wrong with the dose? Or the batch? Or with him? Because sane people wouldn't see what he saw at night. Sane people wouldn't have visions of the costumed robotic cast of his work hunting him in the dark.

The sound of a basketball game blared from the other room when he shuffled down the hall, with muffled grumbles and snarls at the current score. His father was likely situated on the couch, in 'the zone' with the newest match. It didn't interest Mike at all to go join him; he never could handle the intensity that was basketball. How could you keep track of it?

"You know, you're old enough to go to bathroom by yourself, Mikey. You've been doing it since you were four." His mother said delicately as she could when he padded into the kitchen. He nodded, sitting himself down at the table and hunching in on himself. "You've never even told me what you're worried about. Did something happen at work?"

"What?!" Mike jerked his head up sharply. "No. Nothing's wrong."

His Mother looked slightly skeptical. "Because if something has, I'd hope you'd tell me. We don't keep secrets from each other. You've been having me check since your first night-"

"I don't want to go to work tonight." He said abruptly, staring at the plate of beef stroganoff to avoid seeing the disappointment on his mother's face. The pills were beginning to take hold of him, making it easier to focus. He could feel himself oozing back into his own skin like he'd never actually been anyone else but Mike. It was disconcerting, to put on your own mind like comfortable sweater to nestle in. It wasn't any easier to deal with things now, but he could at least deal with them as _him_.

"... I know, baby, but we all talked about this." We all. We all meaning he, himself, and his therapist, Dr. Ferris. Goals for the year, the meeting had been unofficially called. A way for him to try to gain some sort of independence and control over his life. He was a relatively new adult, only just turned nineteen but even ill, he couldn't hope to be under his mother's wing for the rest of his adult life. Even though that's all he wished to do.

"Can we re-talk about it? Come up with something different? A different goal?"

"We already did that last year with school, baby. You said you hated it and wanted to get a job instead."

He remembered. He remembered that horrible, horrible few months where he'd been enrolled in a few programs to prepare him for his GED. He'd pleaded to get out of it; begged to stop going to the classes and to just go get a job. Who needed to have a high school diploma or it's equivalent? He'd hated high school too.

"I hate this too, though."

Joyce sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose roughly as if to ward off a headache. All at once, Mike felt sick for a new reason. She looked just as stressed out and exhausted as he felt, and he hated himself fiercely in that moment. Hated the boy known as Mike Schmidt for doing this to one of the only people who had ever stood by him.

"We'll talk about it next session and see what Dr. Ferris says, alright?"

He nodded softly. It'd have to be good enough. But his silence made her frown and continue.

"You're still taking your medication, Mikey?" She asked gently, as if trying not to spook him. But no matter how ill he was some days (and there were days that were worse than others), he'd never skipped his pills before. Not since that incident in his junior year of school that he didn't like to think about or remember. He'd been very diligent on taking them every time he woke up. She he gave a nod, shoving a forkful of stroganoff into his mouth. It tasted good but it sat badly in his stomach. "It's still working right? We don't need to adjust the dose again?"

"No, Mom, it's fine. It's just a bad day." It'd been a bad week. A very, very bad five days that only seemed to get worse as the time went on. But his mother seemed satisfied at that and shifted her attention back to her own plate of stroganoff. It was easy for her to do, he noted with some slight bitterness. She didn't have to go to Freddy Fazzbear's tonight. She didn't need to sit in that cramped little office with that awful fan. She didn't need to watch things happen that shouldn't and couldn't actually be happening. She didn't need to fear for her life ever evening.

But even if the medication wasn't working... even if it had failed and he needed to adjust the dose, Mike thought he'd rather die than allow it. Not again. Not when it played such hell on his head for weeks while they ping-ponged between dosages and levels of medications, and new pills were introduced or taken away. Like he was a pot of soup, just tossing ingredients in to see the result. Side-effects were never pleasant, and the pills he swallowed down every day brought on too many as it was.

One for depression. Two for anxiety. One for a light sedative to calm the shakes the anxiety medicine gave him. One for schizophrenia. One for the nausea that the anti-depressant caused...

He was _tired_ of pills. He was _tired_ of side-effects. He was _tired_ of being sick.

She was right. They were all right. Mom, Dad, his older brother Clark, Dr. Ferris... they were all right about it. He couldn't be taken care of forever. He was getting to an age where, should he get any worse, they had spoken about a home for him. They assured him it'd be better than the temporary situation he'd had after his episode in high school, but he wasn't at all keen to the idea. He wanted to be in his own bed, in his own room, in his own house, with his parents. And if his older brother dropped by from school, that was all the better. They could be here and be a family and it'd all be alright.

He just... had to ignore the things at work. He just needed to pretend they weren't there.

A glance at the clock. It was almost seven.

It'd be fine though. Tonight would be fine. Ignore the visions, Mike. They couldn't hurt you. They couldn't get you because they weren't real. The employers would have told him about it. They would have told him what could happen after midnight if it were actually real.

Right?


End file.
